Iris
by Lady Atropos
Summary: Tonks relearns the difference between seeing and observing; it’s the look of his eyes. (RLNT, three parts)
1. Iris

It is a slow dance at first, with fluidity but no daring. They certainly smile when they see each-other at meetings; they are amicable when sent on assignment together. When she sees him after the full moon, maybe the next day or the day after, she always makes the tea, and tries her very hardest not to break anything. Of course, she would do that for anyone else in his situation. It's common courtesy; thoughtfulness.

The dance is performed, unnoticed, for an indefinite amount of time; maybe three months, maybe a year, maybe four days and a week. She is not aware that it is so careful, so precarious, until one night when she observes the colour of his eyes. As an Auror, she is trained to note all identifying details of a new-met individual. She has known his eyes are brown, with darker rims around the outside of the iris, and one pupil slightly more dilated than the other, since the day she had taken the oath of the Phoenix and met the Order's resident werewolf.

The night the dance changes is different, however. That night, she relearns the difference between seeing and observing.

Remus Lupin has nut-brown eyes. They are not perfect eyes; a bit asymmetrical, a bit faded. Their colour is ordinary. Small crinkles frame their corners, the brothers of the crinkles that touch the corners of his mouth every time he smiles, even just a little. When the moon has been waxing for too long, his eyes become a touch fierce with repressed restlessness. When the moon has been waning for not long enough, his eyes are a little red, hooded, relieved. The rest of the time, they are ordinary, brown eyes.

Tonks believes they are beautiful eyes.

She does not know when she first observed his eyes. She knows that before every meeting she looks forward, unaccountably, to seeing those eyes, observing them again. It gives her pleasure to note his glances, drifting like music; separate melodies for each member seated at the table.

When he looks at her, she feels that he is not simply turning eyes upon her. He is _seeing_ her.

She likes to catch his eyes, like a small girl might catch butterflies. She likes to hold them with her own, to speak something to him without the use of words. She loves his eyes a little bit more every time she knows he understands what she has said.

One night she recreates the colour of his eyes in her own. The next day, her eyes are sea-foam green, and then she reverts to her usual dark indefinable colour. She does not wear brown eyes again, except on assignment.

She does not talk to Lupin more than necessary after that. She feels as if she has tread upon his foot and must withdraw. She experiences chagrin, though she does not know why, because he does not know what she does in her mind when he is not with her, and sometimes when he is just across the table. His eyes could read into her very fantasies if she looks his way, so she does not look his way any more.

She feels his eyes, though; she feels them like light finger-tip brushes, and she knows that when she looks up again, his brown eyes will be waiting to hold hers and understand.


	2. Verbena

Many thanks to: Leslie, Queriusole, Maiden of Valinor, prettiest in pink, ncygrl, and ArwenLumos for your lovely reviews of the first part of this story.

Verbena 

He enjoys the scents of the kitchen, and smelling the life that went on in it.

Molly's food, spices, soap, tangerines, old wood; the kitchen's scent is like a blanket. Its warmth seeps into him, and when he retreats to his own bedroom, his own miniature flat with no rent, at the end of the evening, he takes off his jumper and crushes it to his face and breathes.

Scents are the most common triggers for memory; something primal pulsates in that one sense out of the five that has not and will not be civilised. In that scent, he remembers not with visions and words; he does not remember the way he thinks. He remembers the sensations of comfort, no particular event in mind; he remembers his mother's cookies and his pillow in the huge fourposter in Griffindor tower and warm soup on cold nights and the embrace of a friend. He soaks himself in memories and remains submerged until he is forced to come up for air.

He does so with a short gasp, not a sob, and folds the jumper carefully and places it on the wooden chair pulled out from his desk. He takes his shoes off, and his feet start to go numb from the cold floor despite his threadbare socks and the threadbare carpet. He unbuttons his shirt, slowly because the buttons are loose and he does not look forward to sewing them back on, and then he folds the garment and lays it on top of his jumper.

He is standing in his undershirt, trousers and socks when he hears the noise downstairs, noise uncharacteristic of the house's resident monsters and creeping things. He snatches his dressing gown and drifts down to the kitchen silently, to make sure he sees what is down there before it sees him.

It's Tonks.

She's scrambling around on her knees, looking under the table, hunting beneath the cabinets, searching for something. He puts a hand on her shoulder, gently, and he feels her warmth pleasantly on his chilled fingers. She starts in surprise and looks up.

"Oh, Remus," she says, shakily, almost in a whisper. "Wotcher."

"What are you doing here?"

"I dropped something. Or left it. Dropped it then left it. I came back. I can't find it."

"What?"

"My glasses. I sometimes need them, sometimes after I do a change. Sometimes I change my eyes and I act like an old lady and I keep my usual sight but when you're an old lady, it seeps into your brain, the way your brain thinks about seeing when you've worn glasses, and I try to morph to counteract it but morphing eyes is rather delicate and sometimes it takes a few days to adjust. I've read all sorts of Muggle medical books to learn about the brain bits, how it's sometimes my r-retina and sometimes it could be my brain adjusting. I need the glasses, just fix the strength with a," she mimics flicking her wand, and examines her toes.

_"Accio glasses"_

The required item speeds into Remus' open palm and rests there. Tonks looks at them, and it seems as though her eyes have become brighter than they should be.

"I hadn't thought of that."

"It's been a long day. You should go home and get some rest."

"Yes."

Her fingertips brush his palm as she takes the glasses from him, and she realises for the second time how cold his hands are, remembering the touch of his fingertips on her shoulder earlier. She takes one hand in her own and folds it in her fingers gently, and holds it there, and then lets go.

"Good night, Remus."

"Sleep well."

She leaves him standing in the kitchen. He listens to the door close; he feels the prickle of the secrecy charms resettle upon the house like coarse, nubbly blankets. He stands, in a thin haze of her scent, evaporating swiftly.

He is not prone to talking to himself, although he will if only there is a classroom grindylow or a potted plant to listen. However, he has neither of these things at the moment, and so he remains silent as he creeps back up the stairs and burrows his frozen feet under his bedclothes, barely bothering to finish changing first. As he charms out the light and closes his eyes, however, one thought sinks through his mind.

"Good night, Nymphadora."


	3. Collapsible

a/n Thanks to all the reviewers! This is the projected last installment, but I've been prompted by a gal on the wolfandlady community to continue it, so there may be additional mini-chapters following after I wrap up a few fics in other fandoms and some (gasp!) original fiction. Reviews, criticism, and free copies of the works of Neil Gaiman are all welcome, as always :) I'm very glad y'all have enjoyed the trip so far… 

Collapsible 

It grew, then, until it was maddening if he was alone and idle long enough to question it too much; as he lived most of the time by himself, he strove to find more things to occupy his mind or hands. He didn't need to look far. He assumed that it would pass eventually, and cease to bother him, but he only assumed this when he thought he was almost out of its reach; then something would happen between them, and he'd spiral downwards again and not remember what it was like to not wonder what her skin felt like or the scent of her hair.

The night she invaded his dreams he woke not knowing the time, lost in the vague darkness of his lonely room. The air was stale, the single window red and gloomy.

She hated crushes.

Generally, they made her feel bad; dissatisfied with herself, immature, dependant. She didn't enjoy the disappointment she experienced if she didn't see him of a day; she didn't enjoy knowing that the presence of one person could affect her mood so drastically. She had breakfast with him, when she had the time before work and he wasn't on a mission; she resented herself, or maybe him, for the way she spent the rest of the morning and afternoon recreating his smile in her mind, or memorising the exact words he had said to her—just to her.

When the discreet others asked her where she went mornings, and she answered 'Remus' ' regularly, they began to understand that it was a ritual, and ceased to interfere.

He charmed the kettle, poured, dropped in teabags, handed one mug to his companion. All in silence.

Her eyes were hooded; she had woken up a bit earlier than usual just to stop by before an early assignment, and she was obviously not fully awake. He reached around her to the other side of the counter, and drew out a battered tin of biscuits, opening it and holding it out to her. She regarded it in bewilderment before aligning her eyes with his.

'Chocolate?'

'If you don't have any objections, I haven't been to the grocery lately.'

She rewarded him with a sleepy grin before stuffing a cocoa biscuit into her mouth.

They stood there in the kitchen in comfortable silence while she gradually woke up. She used to roll out of bed mostly alert and mostly resigned to being snatched out of someplace dark and comfortable to head to work. Somehow, seeing him mornings was like inviting back sleep, so that in his comforting scent of worn fabric and mild soap and sometimes salty skin she drifted backwards into a walking doze, and when she was lost in his warm presence, her dreams seeped back in.

She yawned abruptly and mewled as she stretched herself from fingertip to toe after remembering to set down her mug.

He heard the huff of breath and the twang of her sleep-possessed vocal chords, and smiled slightly at her when she was done.

'I hope the biscuits were enough. I should have thought to buy you something, since you were going to come over…'

It was the first time he had admitted it was a habit.

'Don't, I'll snatch something on my way to work. I'm the one barging in on your house every morning, after all.'

'It's not my house.'

Said a little too quickly.

She put her hands on his shoulders and pressed her cheek to his. The rest of their bodies were not pressed together, but she could feel his warmth like a return of the embrace.

'Of course it is. What would it be like without you?'

She didn't make a big deal out of leaving, but did so swiftly, and only stumbled mildly on the corner of the hall carpet upstairs.

Her breath had whispered by his ear when she spoke, and he touched the place on his cheek where they had touched while he thought about her words.

He did not usually savour voices when he tried to capture a person in his mind; voices where far away and sometimes deceptive. Some voices were warm and fragrant, others reedy or chill or coarse, but they did not always reflect the sensibility of the possessor. Voices could be heard from a distance; scents lingered and clung, taste barely drifted, and touch—touch was for that moment. These were the things he liked to try and recall; he remembered the ocean by the taste of the salt and not the sound of the waves; he held his Hogwarts memories in a vial of sharp, crisp rain-scented air; he smoothed Tonks' words into the sensation of her face so close to his, and her warm hands, and the tone of her body's attitude, and he smiled to himself.

He had to remind himself, he jotted in his mental journal, to invite her over properly one day.


	4. Earl Grey

**A/N**: Well, here it is: the next chapter. Not sure how long this story will be by the end, but enjoy, and please review!

**Earl Grey**

Soaking, floating is how she takes her baths, when she has the time to take them. This isn't often, but nonetheless she enjoys them immensely. Bubbles, rubber duckies, a cheap, silly and entertaining Muggle novel, and she's set.

She watches the way the sun brings out the pretty, colourful things in the bathroom of her flat. An electric-blue toothbrush. Shockingly pink towels. Brilliantly green curtains.

Then she closes her eyes, and sinks down. She has told herself she'd treat herself this afternoon. No more sitting around in that big old gloomy house. No more needing to see Remus in order to relax. She can relax on her own.

It feels good.

She doesn't fall asleep, but she approaches dreaming. She tries not to think; she concentrates only on the sensation of the warm water, and steam on her face, and the scent of bubbles. She can't keep her eyes closed for long, however, and so she opens them and stares at the sudsy water instead. She doesn't think about Remus.

She doesn't think about his eyes illuminated in the morning sunlight, or the silver and gold that shine threaded his hair at that time.

She doesn't think about his mouth curving up in a small smile, or the little lines that deepened around the corners of his lips when he was amused.

She doesn't think about kissing that mouth.

She doesn't think about the sound of his voice, or the warmth of his skin against hers, in the simplest of touches.

She does not fantasise.

She just hypothesises.

For example, if she were to kiss him one morning, on his curving mouth, would he close his eyes? Would he let her wind her fingers in his hair?

Would he taste like the tea he always fixes? Or like tangerines?

Or like Remus?

Would touching Remus be like a long bath, warming and loosening and delicious? Could he wait for her at the end of a long day? Could he keep her in dreams, even while she was awake?

What would it take, for her to feel him? It would take an invitation.

An invitation is exciting at first. Thrilling, full of acceptance. Then, a wonder that it's been delivered to her. Then, doubt as to whether it was fully meant.

An owl taps at Tonks' bathroom window, and she rises, startled, and wraps herself in a towel. The owl politely averts its eyes.

Tonks opens the window wide enough for the messenger to hop in, and unties its letter.

"Dear Tonks,

"I had thought we might have things to talk about—the Order, and Sirius, and whatever you're reading right now…well, would you have the time to join me for dinner one night? Tomorrow night, at six? Meet me at the house. If you can't be there, I understand completely. You have work, a life…but I thought you'd like some company, anyway.

"Yours,

"RJL."

She drew on a robe and scrambled for parchment while the owl nibbled crumbs of lunch (take-out meatball sub) in the kitchen. Her reply was succinct.

"I'll see you there.

"Yours,

"T."


End file.
